"My father was, in every sense, a gentle giant. He never raised his voice and never came home empty-handed. From the farm, he brought mangoes, sugar cane, guava, mandarins, and more. These were gifts from his labor carried in the same worn bag and offered with quiet joy. There was also a family ritual that revealed his character. No matter how small the portion, he always cut a piece of meat from his own plate and gave it to the youngest child."
"My mother had a different kind of strength. She was order itself, a manager, a protector, a woman who kept every detail of our household in rhythm. You could feel her authority the moment she entered a room. She ran our home with purpose and discipline, yet beneath that firmness was a generous heart. She would feed anyone who crossed our threshold. She also woke us all at four in the morning to help on the farm."
My parents expressed love through opposing but complementary approaches. The father was gentle, generous, and patient, offering produce from the farm, cutting meat for the smallest child, and comforting with hugs and laughter. The mother enforced order, discipline, and purpose, running the household, waking children early to work on the farm, and feeding anyone who crossed the threshold. Their combined parenting created a home where warmth met structure, shaping children with both care and preparation for the real world. Daily rituals embodied love. Loss clarified gratitude and preserved the living legacy of their balanced care.
Read at Psychology Today
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